


Fouetté

by CrystalRebellion



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dayak teaching Lotor, Early History, Gen, Lotor learns to win, Young Lotor, coliseum battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 02:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalRebellion/pseuds/CrystalRebellion
Summary: Young Prince Lotor learns the struggles of growing up under the Galra regime.  It's only after Dayak takes him under her wing and teaches him a more... unconventional... method of combat that the young prince begins to claim his birthright - and his legacy.  (One shot, young Lotor) (Piece originally for Exiled Prince fanzine.)





	Fouetté

The smooth stone felt cold beneath his burning skin.

He exhaled.

His body _ached._

His bones cracked.

_Pain._

Groggily, he opened one eye, just in time to see the gladiator sheath his sword.

The battle was over.

"Pathetic.”

The voice of Emperor Zarkon rang out across the arena, and Lotor could only sigh as blood pounded in his ears. He wished it would stop. The noise, the agony, the _fighting_.

“This Trial is concluded. Once again, my son has failed to prove his worth.”

The sneering voice faded as it echoed off the walls of the Coliseum.

Lotor didn’t bother to rise from his shame. He remained where he sat - where he _fell_ . The dirt bloomed out around him like a Cadmium Rose from the moment his body had connected with with it at a near-terminal velocity. The hefty Galran challenger turned and walked out of the arena. The opponent had been nearly four times his size - and yet there was no expectation of pity for the child. It was his due, his right, his _obligation_ to circumvent any and all challenges.

It seemed like he would never win.

He never landed a punch.

His sword never struck.

He cursed, relishing the pain that thrummed through him as the audience filtered out of the seating area.

_A stain._

Lotor closed his eyes, the words of his father echoing in his ears. The only words he had ever heard - ever known.

_Failure._

Lotor growled in frustration.

_Weak._

His jaw clenched at the memory, every muscle in his body tensed in preparation to shatter that claim. But in the end… his father had been right. He couldn’t win. No matter how much he calculated, regardless of the planning, he had always fallen short… Every Trial since he had been old enough to hold a sword had ended the same. In another deca-phoeb, it would continue.

“Prince Lotor.”

The young boy tilted a weary head toward his governess. Wordlessly, he acknowledged Dayak as she stepped into the Coliseum, coming to stand beside him in the massive indentation in the sidewall.

“I am ready for the rest of my punishment,” he acknowledged with a weakened sigh. Of course there would be more. Broken bones would never be enough. _He_ would never be enough.

His eyes slid to regard the woman with a calculated grace that came with experience and intellect, not age.

“I am not here for that,” she hedged.

Lotor stiffened, sitting upright and looking at her in surprise.

She glanced around the ruins of the sparring ring; remnants of a battle well-fought. Divots, trails and craters littered the floor. All had been left by his form in one capacity or another, marking his weakness.

“They won’t ever let you win, you know,” she said sharply, her eyes shifting to the empty stadium surrounding them, the seats vacant of spectators.

Lotor’s face darkened as his fists curled tighter. He leaned forward, battle-tossed hair falling around his face, hiding his humiliation from his governess.

“I-“

“I _know_ that you tried. You will not ever beat them with strength, my prince.”

When his eyes moved back to her and he said nothing, she continued, extending her palm toward his broken frame.

“I will help you win. It will be… _unconventional_ at its best.”

Lotor eyed the hand before him and quickly clasped it in his own, weakly rising to his feet.

_Stars,_ did his body ache.

“Anything.”

“Excellent, we will begin your training in a movement, once your body heals. In lieu of your studies, we shall meet in the ballroom.”

“…Ballroom?”

“Indeed. Do you not wish victory?”

Lotor’s shocked expression melted as he nodded once at the woman.

“Yes.”

“They have leveraged your weaknesses against you, my prince. It’s time we return the favor.”

* * *

“One foot only.”

Lotor frowned, raising his left leg off the ground slowly until it formed a ninety-degree angle with his hip, extended fully before him. Tiny arms waved in the air for balance as his right thigh buckled.

“Balance is key,” Dayak’s voice continued as she circled around him, her arms folded behind her back primly.

“I don’t… I do not understand,” he admitted, his body wavering weakly. As his weight shifted, he set his foot down to catch himself.

Dayak’s crop on his leg reminded him of his error.

Swiftly, he brought the limb back up.

“Better,” she encouraged, the instrument rapping lightly against her open palm.

His jaw tightened as he watched her, his small body still shifting in the air as he held his balance.

“What if I fall?”

“Then fall, my prince. Meet the floor. Feel it. Learn to work _with_ it, not against it. It is not an adversary, nor something to be avoided. To conquer your enemies, you must _bend_ with them. Yield, move, and press your advantage when – and only when – the time is right. Other leg,” she nodded, and Lotor touched his toe down and shifted his weight to his left foot before raising his right into the air.

He wobbled.

“Do not place your foot back down. If you fall, then fall,” Dayak reminded him, her crop coming to smack against her palm. Lotor’s back stiffened on instinct at the sound.

He released a cry as his balance shifted too far. He thrust his hands out to catch himself and quickly jumped back to his feet, catapulting his weight from one foot to the other before turning to face his governess. He braced.

“Perfect.”

Lotor blinked.

“But I fell,” he protested, confused by her praise.

“And you used your momentum from the fall to come back to your feet. _That_ is what we are training. _That_ is how you will win. Do not avoid your mistakes and missteps. _Use them._ Every movement you make takes energy. Do not waste it.

She paced in a slow circle around the young child as she lectured.

“In a waltz, it’s give and take. One person leads; the other follows. Even when a step is incorrect, a dancer must keep moving. One cannot stop in the middle of the motion to correct a phrase; he must continue as if it were his intention. Perhaps the cadence is altered slightly, but he must keep moving, never yielding.”

The governess had moved across the room from him and stood facing him, the width of the floor between their bodies.

“Come at me, my prince. We will practice turns and spins - they are the simplest way to generate momentum. A simple pivot will be the difference between life and death. You need not block a sword if you can sidestep it.”

Lotor nodded, a grim sense of determination seeping into his core. Dayak had never been wrong before.

* * *

Lotor stared across the coliseum at the fallen warrior.

The sensation of a hollow victory flooded him – while the crowd roared in the background and Zarkon said nothing in the stand above him, Lotor felt no pride in his triumph.

The challenger yielded, dropping his sword.

Jeers and cheers both rained down on him – the crowd a dichotomy of pleasure, shock, and fury at his unusual tactics.

The match had been swift; he had dodged every blow and wove his way around the bulkier challenger until the Galra had tired himself out swinging the hefty axe. Once weakened, it had taken only a single turn and clash of sword to drop his opponent to his knees.

Lotor’s heels had never touched the ground. As Dayak had prepared him, all his weight had balanced on his toes, affording him the ability to pivot, swivel and sidestep everything. Not a scratch marred him, no strand of hair out of place.

He had performed _flawlessly._

The Galra would find no honor in his efforts; he had fled every blow rather than meeting it directly.

_But he had won._

He exhaled once, sheathing the sword at his side. Closing his eyes, the young man braced before turning to look up at his father.

His jaw tensed when only disappointment and anger stared back. The sound of the crowd faded into the background and all Lotor could hear was his own heartbeat hammering in his chest. Nothing would ever please the man. 

_So be it._

_It matters not._

_I’ll never lose again._


End file.
